Apocalypse Atlanta (43 page)

But he also really, really wanted this guy to decide.  His arm actually was getting tired.  It was rather taxing to hold a gun aimed and ready to fire for anything longer than maybe half a minute.  Sure some tough guys could do it for quite a while, but it was an effort.  Peter had very little to prove, or maybe he just didn’t care anymore, but he wasn’t going to let some hysterical coward shoot him if there was anything he could do about it.

“Okay, I’m leaving.” the man announced.

“Fine.”

“I’m headed that way.” he elaborated, jerking his head over his shoulder towards the door to the pedestrian tube.

“No problem.”

“I’m going alone.”

“Not for long.” Whitely muttered behind Peter, but so softly he was sure the panicking soldier couldn’t hear.

Peter shifted his aim as the man stepped back, then again.  The only movement in the hallway was the man leaving and the efforts of those soldiers who were providing first aid to the wounded.  The man backed down the corridor until he was nearly halfway to the tube door.  Peter tracked him with the pistol until the man finally turned and started walking with his back to them.  Only then did Peter lower the gun, though he kept it in his hand and watched.

He kept his eyes on the departing man’s back until it vanished through the tube door.  Then he switched his attention to the wounded.  “Okay, how are the rest of us doing?”  Glancing around, it took a lot of effort for Peter to keep his expression calm and confident rather than angry or frustrated.  In the last ten or so minutes their numbers had gone from respectable to a couple handfuls.

There were five dead, two of them due to the rifle fire of their fellows.  Four more were hurt seriously enough that they probably wouldn’t make it another hour.  Especially if they had to move at all, which in one of the cases would be difficult with the damage he’d suffered to one of his legs.  There were a handful of walking wounded, but three of those had been bitten by the zombified Guardsmen.

Peter didn’t interrupt any of the first aid activities, but he was thinking furiously.  It was the wounded that were the big problem, and Peter could tell he wasn’t the only one dwelling on it.  The way the ‘healthy’ soldiers’ eyes kept flicking back and forth, trading glances or sneaking looks at him or at the wounded . . . it gave away what they were thinking.  At least two of the wounded were doing it too, he noticed, and he wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

Desperate people did desperate things.

Hernandez finally asked the question, though to his credit he came over to Peter and spoke very quietly and confidentially.  “What are we going to do about the wounded?”

“I’m not sure.” Peter told him.  “We don’t know for sure what’s going to happen.  It feels like any decision will probably be the wrong one.”

“Wrong for who?” Hernandez asked.

“Us.”

The soldier shrugged.  “Look sarge.  There’s a whole lot of fucked up going around right now, but I for one would rather be around to feel bad about some of the shit I had to do in order to survive.  Can’t feel bad if you’re dead.”

“That’s cold.” Whitley said.  She was still behind Peter, standing close enough that he could feel her presence.  She hadn’t moved except to swivel or step with him since he’d setup the fireteams.

“Hot, cold, whatever.” Hernandez said.  “Normally I’m all for honor and glory, all that shit.  But I’m pretty sure the honorable decision having been made won’t make getting eaten by zombies feel any better.”

“It’s still an assumption.” Peter said.

“Yeah.  And?” Hernandez said, not entirely unreasonably.  “This ain’t the movies, but they’re the only thing I got to go on right now.  And in the movies, you get bitten or whatever by a zombie, you turn into one.”

Peter said nothing.  As silly as trying to decide a life or death choice over movie logic seemed to him, he had nothing with which to refute Hernandez’s reasoning.  He opened his mouth, hesitated, then turned his head toward the recently converted zombies who were scattered on the balcony floor.

“Do any of these guys have wounds somewhere?” he asked, raising his voice slightly.  When a few heads turned to look at him, he gestured at the zombified Guardsmen who had just done their best to eat everyone up here.  “Bites or scratches, anything aside from the bullet wounds that killed them?”

Some negative answers came back, most of them tentative, and Peter scowled a little.  “Well, help check them out.”

Suiting actions to words, Peter holstered the pistol and snapped out his pocket knife.  Squatting next to the nearest zombie, he unbuckled the man’s belt and equipment harness, then started cutting off the utilities so he could get a better look at the body.  He could tell there was some hesitation, but then a couple of the soldiers found knives and started doing the same thing to other zombies.

When he finished cutting the pants and shirt clear, Peter sat back on his heels and studied the zombie carefully.  It looked normal and was even still warm to the touch, with none of the lividity or drained appearance he’d noticed on other zombies.  Probably because it had been alive until only a few minutes ago.  Perhaps if it had been given a chance to wander around for a few hours the more gruesome ‘dead body’ features might have begun appearing.

But as he rolled the body over, then stood up after half a minute or so, Peter frowned.  The zombie’s head was a pretty large mess thanks to the bullet that had killed it, or maybe that was killed-killed it, but he couldn’t see any thing that looked suspicious.  There were a few bruises on the body, one on the arm, another up on the right shoulder, and a third on a knee; but no cuts, no punctures or anything that broke the skin.

“Okay, not sure what I’m supposed to be checking for.” he heard Swanson, another of the fireteam leaders say as Peter considered the zombie he’d stripped to the briefs.

Standing up, Peter shrugged.  “Bite or cut.” he said thoughtfully.  “Anything that might indicate why they changed.”

“Well, this guy’s clear then.” Swanson said after a couple of moments.

“Are you sure?” Hernandez asked.

“Pretty sure.” Swanson replied, running his fingers lightly over the dark flesh of the zombie soldier he’d stripped down.  “I think I see some bruises here, kinda hard to tell with a black guy, but nothing that’s bleeding except the shots in his neck and head.”

Peter glanced over idly, too lost in thought and too inured against graphic gore at this point to be bothered by the trio of shots that had shattered the zombie’s skull and neck.  Swanson seemed correct, that zombie didn’t look like he had any non-bullet wounds either.  At least, again, none that seemed to match up to a movie defined infection vector.

“This guy’s got some scratches on his forearm.” Smith piped up from near the railing.  He held up the zombie’s limp arm as heads turned in his direction, and he pointed at the marks on the corpse’s skin.  “Look like fingernail scratches to me.”

“How the fuck would you know what caused them?” a woman asked as she finished winding a bandage around a man’s leg.

“Come on Crawford, you know how it is.” he said with a grin.  “My girlfriend likes to use her claws when she’s hot and bothered.”

“Forget I asked.” Crawford said with a moue of discontent.

Hernandez moved over and studied the supposed fingernail scratches carefully, then moved on to examine the rest of the zombies.  Peter circulated as well.  Out of the eight zombies, one had a bite and one other beside Swanson’s had injuries that weren’t explained away as bullets or by the night’s rough activity.

Peter finally shrugged.  “Not a lot to really go on.” he said when Hernandez, who was taking longer to study the zombies, eventually finished his perusal.

“Well something’s turning people.” the soldier said, though his expression said he really wanted to say something else.

“Okay, look.” Peter said, gesturing to him as he stepped away from the main body of the group a couple of yards.  Whitley was still moving with him, and he almost started to tell her to stand off, as he waited for Hernandez to join him, then decided against it.  She was doing exactly what he’d told her to do, better than other fireteam members were supposed to be doing.  And he might want the backup.

“I’m not going to just abandon people, at least not ones who are still mobile and have a chance, on speculation and hunch.” Peter said quietly when Hernandez was standing next to him.

“Sarge, how are we going to maneuver if we’re carrying guys who can’t walk anymore?” Hernandez pointed out, not entirely unreasonably.  His tone was a touch hot, but his eyes were steady and level as he met Peter’s.  “We’ve been on our feet for hours, and unless we can shoot our way clear of any zombie problems speed is the only defense.”

“What, you want to abandon them?”

“We could park them in a room.  This is a hotel, isn’t it?”

Peter was shaking his head, though he was angry and ashamed that part of him had already considered that very thing.  “That’s a death sentence.”

“Not necessarily.  If we can get out, we can retool and come back with reinforcements to cut them loose.”

Peter frowned, glanced at the others, then lowered his voice to just barely above a whisper.  “I’m not entirely sure there’s anyone who might be able to come back with us, assuming we even make it out of the hot zone.”

Hernandez’s frown matched Peter’s.  “That convoy came from somewhere.”

“Yeah, and they had vehicle mounted radios.  Assuming the reason we can’t reach anyone is due to the range on our handhelds, where’s the cavalry for those poor fuckers outside?”

“It’s only been, what, ten or fifteen minutes?”

Peter shrugged.  “Yeah, and before you say it, let me point out if there was still a functioning command structure beyond Downtown Atlanta, do you think they would’ve sent just a single convoy in if there were more troops available?”

“Who’s to say they didn’t?”

“Then where are they?  Anyone else in Downtown who was able would’ve showed up by now.  We’d hear them firing up the horde outside.”

Hernandez’s frown twisted into an ugly scowl, but his eyes were thoughtful.  Peter shrugged.  “I’m not saying it’s all gone to hell, but I’m not ready to write two guys off just yet.”

“So if you knew we were completely fucked, you’d be willing to cut them loose?”

“I didn’t say that.” Peter snapped, catching himself by the third word and lowering his voice as heads turned.  He grabbed Hernandez by the arm and drew him a few more steps from the others.  “Look, we’ve still got enough people to get the two who’re immobilized out of here.  Even if we have to switch people out, we can keep them with us.”

“Sarge . . .”

Peter shook his head.  “Look, if you wanna split on your own like that other guy, then fine.  Same deal, no problem.”

“Fuck that.”

Peter almost laughed at the immediate answer Hernandez gave him, in a voice that was a little shocked and a lot definite.  “Then I’m still in charge.”

“I ain’t saying you ain’t.”

“Good.  Glad that’s settled.” Peter said.

Hernandez looked unhappy, and almost said something, paused, then almost said something else, before finally shrugging and turning back to the others.  “Alright my guys, come with me.”

“Where?” the two who were still alive, though they stood up and grasped their M-16s.

Hernandez glanced back at Peter, then gestured at the closed shops lining the corridor back to the pedestrian tube.  “We’re going to bust those open and check for anything that we can use to rig up crutches or stretchers or something.”

“You’re with Hernandez.” Peter said, pointing to a Guardsman who he knew was the last one still alive out of the fireteam he’d been assigned to just before the zombies converted.  “Ten minutes, then we’ll figure out how to move without it if you guys don’t turn anything up.” Peter added to Hernandez, who nodded.

Peter returned it, then unslung his AR.  As Hernandez moved towards the shops, Peter eyed the zombies still in the lobby below, then sighed.  Settling his weapon back against his shoulder once more, he drew aim on one of the upraised foreheads.

* * * * *

“The fuck . . . you say he was shot?”

Vivian nodded.  “That’s what it look like.”

Darryl frowned, glancing automatically at the others in the room to see their reactions.  The lounge was crowded with people.  Every seat against the wall was occupied, and more were sitting on the floor.  There was a big pile of sleeping bags against the bar, some of which had been appropriated to act as cushions for those sprawled on the floor.

It seemed that not everyone had heard, or maybe they just weren’t paying attention.  Needles and Joker were in the far corner of the room, furthest from the bar, smoking a joint with a couple of others.  A few other conversations were going on, quietly, near them.  Of those who seemed to be paying attention to what Darryl considered the main conversation, all of them seemed angry or upset.

Except Bobo.  The old biker sat on one of the bar stools, arms folded with a stony expression completely lacking in surprise on his lined face.  He caught Darryl studying him.  Darryl wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw a flicker of approval when Bobo caught his gaze.  Then Bobo addressed Vivian.